The Unknown Notes of Dr Watson
by medcat
Summary: A real friend will always find a way to cheer up the person who is dear to him. And it is not his fault if that person draws entirely unexpected conclusions from such an attempt. As always, friendship only. A story by tanchouz.
1. Chapter 1

**Warnings:** AU in that Holmes had visited India during his hiatus. Also, there is a discussion of the Aghori sect and death rituals (somewhat graphic) and there is also an unfavourable view of Buddhism.  
><strong>Translator's Notes:<strong>this is NOT my story. It was originally written in Russian for a fest "Our Birthday Present for Mr Brett" for Nov. 3, 2011 in the 221b comm on . I liked the story and asked the author for permission to translate into English and post on English-language fanfic comms and here , which the author kindly granted.

* * *

><p>Having awakened early in the morning after an insane night, following the miraculous reappearance of my dear friend from the abyss of the Reichenbach Falls, (although, according to his own confession, he never was in it), I sat up, shuddered with the cold, felt for the matches in the pitch darkness and lit a candle.<p>

Trying to be quiet, I went onto the staircase, descended to the second floor and crept up to the door leading to Holmes' bedroom. I have done that, forgetting all rules of decorum, only because I still couldn't believe that the person to whose loss I had found it so difficult to resign myself, was lying in the bedroom in the floor below and breathing quietly in his sleep. I had to either hear his breathing or at least to see the familiar silhouette to convince myself that it had not been a dream, and that yesterday Holmes' hand really did feel my forehead, and then put his brandy flask to my lips, when he was trying to revive an army doctor, who yielded to his weakness in such an undignified manner, like a sentimental maiden. Of course, that marvelous bust which Mrs Hudson had left in the living room till morning, its beauty slightly spoiled by the revolver bullet, which passed through the back of the head and tore apart the forehead could have also convinced me of it—because that wax copy couldn't have appeared there by itself. Still, of the two adjacent rooms, I chose the one which had been empty for so long, and even now no sounds came from it.

I carefully pushed the door open. The bed was empty. I stood for some time looking at the smoothly spread comforter, then raised my candle higher, assuring myself that the room was empty. I suppose the darkness and silence of this morning hour, this uneasy time of final transition from yesterday to a nebulous perception of this day, must have affected me more than could be expected. Only this, and also a certain nervous tension, which did not completely subside after an unexpected and dangerous adventure, which disclosed the mystery of poor Ronald Adair's death and led the criminal Moran into the arms of the law, could have explained the fact that I rather loudly called my friend's name, and, disregarding caution, quickly walked into the living room.

"Holmes!"

I spoke his name again, more quietly this time, having discerned in the dim flickering light of the candle the hem of his dressing-gown and the outline of a familiar figure, sitting in the armchair which used to be mine back when the sitting room belonged to both of us.

"Watson, you are like Prometheus, bringing fire to the humans. Descend, then, to the suffering humanity and light the fire. I promise your liver will be safe."

Holmes made not the slightest move whilst he was uttering these words, and, having walked around his armchair, I saw that he had placed his bust with the bullet hole through it on the table, facing him, and they were looking at each other, as if arguing silently who was the real one.

"I am very glad to hear that my liver is safe", I grumbled, putting the candle down on the table, crouching in front of the coal-box and picking up the tongs. "Do you not find that rather irrational—to risk a no-longer-young liver for the sake of bringing fire to the humanity which immediately forgets what to do with it? Holmes, why are you sitting here in the dark? Don't you remember where the matches are kept?"

"That wasn't why, my friend. I merely got to thinking, and the light of the street-lamps sufficed for that. And when I remembered the matches, I discovered that I could not even move because I was so infernally cold. I decided to spend my body's energy wisely and to maintain life in it until you would come and rescue me. I think that was quite a rational decision."

Despite these friendly words, Holmes had not even glanced at me or moved, as if he were truly benumbed with finished building up the fire and extinguishing the candle, I sat down in the armchair opposite Holmes and started observing how his eyes, which seemed huge in his wasted face, stared at one spot, unblinking. The spot right in the middle of the high wax forehead, which was just as pale as the forehead of the person on whom it was modeled. The fire gradually burned brighter, and soon the high flames were cheerfully dancing in the fireplace, filling the room with such life-giving warmth as if its source truly had been purloined from the gods.

We sat silently. I was silent because everything that came to my mind was so foolish and sentimental that I myself would have winced in displeasure, had somebody said such things to me. Holmes remained silent as well, and I didn't know what it was he really saw in front of him—a replica of his own head or other sights, for instance, icy torrents plunging into an abyss, which seems to be howling with half-human voices. Or a man, his face distorted by hate, clutching Holmes' shoulder with one hand, and stretching the other hand to claw at Holmes' throat.

"Are you feeling any warmer?" I asked, finally. Holmes started, as if my question awakened him out of some strange trance, and, extending a thin hand, touched the bullet-mark on the wax forehead.  
>"Do you know, Watson, that this is the site of Ajna's chakra? The Hindus believe that the so-called 'third eye' is located right here."<p>

I chuckled.

"What else can one expect from people who consider cows sacred and who drink water from a river which has half-decayed corpses floating in it? I can just imagine the sorts of things they see with that third eye of theirs once they've chewed enough betel. An acquaintance of mine has been to India and told me afterwards that the streets there reminded him of TB wards, because they are covered with red saliva from those intoxicating nuts, and full of naked insane men, who are worshipped as saints."

"That chakra is responsible for enlightenment and comprehending the truth," Holmes continued, as if he had not heard me. "Do you see what Moran wanted to deprive me of?"

"I doubt that thought had occurred to him, Holmes. But have you really visited India? As far as I recall, you'd mentioned only Tibet, Persia, and Khartoum."

"True…I'd not told you…You know, my friend, a few minutes between life and death in a picturesque Swiss valley and the necessity to present myself as a dead man had slightly affected the state of my nerves. I was seeing some very strange things when I crossed the Alps. I clung only to one thought, so as not to completely lose my mind…"

What that one thought was, which helped him climb over the mountain pass and reach Florence, where he was finally able to dispatch a message to his brother, Holmes did not say.

"Were you remembering your homeland?" I cautiously asked.

"Oh yes, yes," he answered straight away, as if he were grateful for the suggestion. "Yes, that is what I was remembering…"

We fell silent again.

I grew ill at ease. The facility with which Holmes had mentioned his travels had made me imagine something like an educational tour, undertaken out of curiosity by an Englishman, who, no matter where he is, never forgets that he is a citizen of a great Empire on which the sun never sets, and condescendingly gazes at the curiosities surrounding him, imagining how they would look on the wall of his study. That the facility was deceptive did not enter my mind until now.

I bent down and stirred the coals with the poker, making the dying flames leap higher. There wasn't much coal left in the coal scuttle, but I added more to the fire, so as to preserve the heat which was gradually bringing colour back to my friend's face.

"All that is behind you, Holmes. You are here, you are alive—and that is the most important thing. There is no need to think of things connected with death…"

"With death…" my friend echoed thoughtfully.

"Have you ever heard of the Aghori?" Holmes finally raised his eyes to my face, but his expression was so strange that I felt ill at ease again.

"I think I might have heard something about them. Some lawsuit filed by the British government against several Hindus who were accused of cannibalism. Was is they?"

"No."

"Who are they, then?"

"Those who don't exist."

"Perhaps then we needn't talk of them further? If they don't exist in any case," I liked Holmes' expression less and less.

"In India, I only visited one city. Benares," said Holmes, pulling his dressing-gown more tightly about him. "It stands on the shore of the Ganges river. And on that river, past the people who have come to perform their ablutions, indeed, half-decayed corpses float. And on the shores funeral pyres are burning. You can't imagine the kind of smell that is constantly there, Watson. Fried human entrails…And the sound when the priest breaks the skull with his stick. Oh yes, in quite a similar way to how you are now breaking up the coals in the fireplace."

I involuntarily froze with the poker in my hand.

"Although that is considered to be against the rules," Holmes continued, as if nothing had happened. "Not a priest but a close relative of the deceased must break his skull to let out the last breath of life. Do you think Mycroft could have conducted the ritual of breaking my skull?"

That was rather too much, even for my friend. Or perhaps I have grown less accustomed to his eccentricity during these three years.

"Pray continue, Watson. You're doing very well. Perhaps in my will I would entrust you the care of that part of my body," a sad smile lit up Holmes' face, to some extent lessening the impression his ominous words made upon me.

I laid the poker aside.

"I am very flattered to hear that, Holmes," I said, having decided to continue the conversation in the same way as if we were talking of everyday, routine things, and then later to direct it onto a safer topic.

"I should like to know what induced you to visit such an…ahem…unusual place?"

"Rumours, my friend, rumours."

"And were these rumours confirmed? Did you see those who do not exist?"

"How could I have seen them if they don't exist? You are contradicting yourself. What I saw there was all a dream, a delirious dream…"

I feverishly considered the list of possible topics for conversation in my mind, not wanting the silence to fall again, because unwholesome thoughts possessed my friend during the silence. But he forestalled me to it.

"Do you believe, Watson, that having lost all illusions, one can once again view the world with the eyes of an innocent babe?" he asked, leaning his elbow on the armrest and his head on his hand. His eyes were this time riveted to the flames, which were evenly burning in the fireplace and softly lighting his haggard face.

"That is too complicated a question, my friend. Perhaps you should…"

"Nothing complicated about it. Imagine you are crawling on the ground during the night, in pitch darkness, dying of thirst. And suddenly your fingers plunge into the blessed coolness of water in some small hole. What are you going to do?"

"I suppose I shall drink it."

"Would you enjoy it?"

"I would enjoy it very much. I'm dying of thirst, aren't I?"

"All right. The next morning you awaken in the same place and you see that you had drunk water out of a human skull. What will you do now?"

"Good heavens, Holmes!" I exclaimed involuntarily. "What are you talking about? That is rank madness!"

"So what will you do, Watson?"

"Since I have already lived till morning," I answered irritably, "I will try to purge my stomach. Although, since this water has been in my body all night already, it wouldn't do much good. Therefore, I'll try to obtain a bottle of whisky, take a few deep draughts and will beg the good Lord to help the alcohol kill the contagion within me."

"Let us suppose that the skull was as clean as your hands just before you were to perform surgery."

"What does that change?" I couldn't understand what Holmes wanted of me. "It's still horrible to drink water out of the human skull."

"But why, Watson? How is human bone different from clay or china? Or the bone of an animal?"

"In my opinion, that is self-evident."

"All that is inside here," Holmes raised his hand, as if he wanted to touch my forehead. But the hand did not reach far enough to actually do that and lowered itself back onto the armrest instead. "All these differences are engendered by your own conscious will. If you get rid of it, you would be able to drink water out of anything. The only question that would remain is whether you'd be able to drink water out of a skull and enjoy it the same as the first time. When you didn't yet know it was a skull."

"And this you also picked up in that Benares of yours?"

"No, that was later, in Tibet. An old story, popular in one of the Buddhist sects."

"Well, I'll tell you something then—one can arrive at such a way of thinking without any experiments of that sort with skulls and water. I believe it was yesterday that you were quoting Shakespeare to us? When you greeted Colonel Moran after he nearly choked you to death? Then you should be able to remember what Hamlet answered Rosencranz when he disagreed with the prince's comparing Denmark to a prison, the very worst kind of prison at that."

"And what did he answer?" asked Holmes without the slightest flicker of interest.

"That, therefore, it is not a prison for Rosencranz. Because things are not in themselves good or evil, only in our opinion of them. What do you think engendered these differences in their opinion, if not their own conscious mind? For him, Denmark was a prison. Do you remember how he was sent to England, to be cured of his madness? And the gravedigger said that even if he does not recover there, nobody would notice it. Because everyone else there is just as mad…"

Holmes seemed not to be listening to me. The Prince of Denmark, who suffered through an inner drama and incidentally came to the conclusion which seemed so significant to a Chinese novice several thousand years ago, did not engage his interest at all. It was still dark outside the window. The barely-flickering gas lights could not completely keep back the predawn darkness, and from experience I knew that the darkness would not disperse until the murky yellowish luminescence (which Londoners consider to be daylight) spreads throughout the city.

"Why have you fallen silent?" Holmes chuckled mirthlessly, pulling the dressing gown even more tightly around himself. "Are you frightened by such conversations?"

"To be honest, having listened to your tales, I am afraid to even ask what you'd been doing in Persia."

"You needn't be afraid. I never went there."

"How is that possible?" I was stunned by Holmes' words. "Your report to the Ministry…"

"My dear fellow! To obtain a clear picture of what was going on in Persia, it was not at all necessary to be present there myself. I had not the slightest desire to visit a country in which even its ruler cannot feel safe. I had other plans. If I weren't obligated to Mycroft…To participate in the Great Game and to contribute my bit to this undercover war with the Russians in the Middle Asia, I needed slightly less than a month, which I spent in Askhabat and its surroundings—you know, it's a military fortification on Turkestan's territory near the border with Persia. It was founded by Russian Cossacks about thirteen years ago.

I portrayed a veterinary assigned to our inspector of military stables. It was an amazing experience. I have never encountered anything similar, although I did have some knowledge of how to care for horses. If you ever decide to keep a horse, Watson, I am at your service—now I can easily tell a good mare from all the others. They had magnificent breeds—Alkhatekians—intelligent, proud, so seemingly fragile but incredibly hardy. For the Turkmen they are not merely household animals, they are members of the family, and they are cared for just as children are."

Holmes gradually grew more animated as he told me this tale. His pale face grew slightly pinker, he finally stopped pulling his dressing gown around himself as if he were unable to get warm. Having congratulated myself mentally, I prepared to listen. My friend could be an excellent raconteur when he so chose. His easy manner of narration was distinguished by unobtrusive humour, although perhaps it lacked some irony in relation to himself. Holmes always took himself very seriously.

"But the inspector, unfortunately, was not so interested in the appearance and qualities of local riding horses as you would judge from the name of his position," Holmes continued, chuckling, "but rather in the state of affairs in the so-called Persian Cossack Division, which is employed to guard the Persian Shah and his ministers and in which Russian military instructors serve. Our government considers it highly desirable to dissolve that division and to replace it with something more British, rather than French or German."

"I've had to make the acquaintance of several 'pundits', who, under the guise of dervishes and folk healers, travel from India via Persia to the Russian Turkestan and collect information for Great Britain. I even ended up in the local prison with one of them for a short while, when the Russians made the Turkmen government to carry out a purge among the Hindus, as all of them without exception were suspected to be spying for England. And not without cause, I can tell you. It was he who told me of curious things one encounters in his homeland. These things interested me so much that I did everything possible to leave Turkestan as soon as possible and wend my way to India.

The inspector, just as all other inspectors we are acquainted with, was not overly intelligent, and that is why I had to explain to him in detail that, judging from the number of horses being bought for the Cossack Division attached to the Shah's Court, things in it are going far from well, and judging from how the payments for those horses are made, the Russian Government doesn't pay sufficient attention to this division and most likely is already in debt to its officers. So I advised him to inform his superiors that now is exactly the time to make our move through the military minister of Persia, who is loyal to us. And that we should concentrate not on the Near but on the Far East, where the Russians are seriously involved with China and Japan.

Having parted with the inspector, I headed south. A few days at an inn on the border of Afghanistan and Persia in the company of a charming Frenchwoman, who was waiting for her husband so as to continue her traveling to the Shah's court, and as a result, the Ministry is already expressing serious concerns about the aspirations of the Persian ruler to open schools in which lessons are taught in French, and about his plans of possibly inviting the new military instructor from France rather than England after all.

And as a farewell gift, when I had already gotten to India, I spent several weeks together with one of our local agents, wandering the bazaars of Belujistan, which is adjacent to Persia. You know, there are many Persian sympathizers there and one can hear quite a few things in the local coffee shops if one only spends long enough in them. Especially since these shops, with their rugs and hookahs, make one inclined to linger. I informed Mycroft that rather progressive reforms of Nasreddin-Shah or what he takes for such will not be crowned with success until he is able to rein in the religious fanatics who are turning the people against him. And that the Shah has significant reasons to fear for his own life….There was something you wanted to ask, Watson?"

Indeed, I wished to clarify a detail which, I must confess, had surprised me. I had imagined Holmes' travels in an entirely different light, but I wanted to ask him not about the political situation in the Near East and not about Mycroft's role in all this either.

"Holmes, you had mentioned a charming Frenchwoman. Did I hear you correctly?"

"You did. A bored woman in a foreign country, deprived of her husband's society, is the best source of information for a man if he decides to court her a bit."

This was even more astonishing.

"Did you really court her? I just can't imagine it, albeit I've been trying to," said I, perhaps with a greater amount of sarcasm than I should have.

"What do you find so surprising about it?" Holmes answered, irritably. "You know my skill with disguises. Especially since in this case I didn't need to become a whole foot shorter, glue on those awful sideburns and portray an old book collector, with whom you collided near the house of the late Ronald Adair. All I had to do was simply to portray a slight interest and admiration."

"And did you succeed in doing so?"

"Judging from how willingly she was sharing information with me, yes, I did."

The animation with which Holmes talked of his adventures on the border of Persia began to wane. I saw from the look in his eyes that other thoughts, not at all connected with the state of affairs in a faraway country where the Kajars rule, were occupying him. My friend lowered his head and quietly remarked, "You know, I was ready to do anything so as to put an end to the duties of a faithful Englishman and to gain my freedom regarding my plans. Even if to accomplish that I had to become a man who is considered dead by everyone in his homeland. Although, perhaps, none of them experienced much sorrow because of that…"

I was taken aback by Holmes' last words. I shifted my gaze to the flames in the fireplace, which blazed up brightly all of a sudden and a hot coal jumped out onto the floor. I returned it to the fire, using the fire shovel, and asked calmly,

"Do you truly think so, Holmes?"

He didn't answer, sitting all huddled up in his armchair.

"Would you like me to also share my impressions with you? From that trip to Switzerland?"

"No need, my dear fellow…I had seen you myself…" Holmes was looking at me with such pitiful eyes that my resentment immediately gave way to the desire to say something encouraging, or at least something which could end this conversation. Just as I wished, he'd changed the subject, but the subject he chose was even less preferable, because it was a painful one for both of us. I wasn't sure to which one of us it caused more pain, actually.

"Your idea with this bust was pure genius," I said the first thing which came into my head, perhaps because Holmes again was staring at his replica on the table in front of him. "But perhaps we could remove this excellent decoy, which deceived the most dangerous man after Moriarty in England, from our sitting room? Do you not find it a rather gloomy decoration?"

And I got up, intending to move the bust as far away from Holmes as possible.

"Oh no, no!" he exclaimed immediately. "Leave it here. I intend to keep it."

"As a reminder of a successfully solved case?"

"No, my dear fellow. As a reminder of my conversations with the Dalai Lama, those ones that did not pertain to dividing the spheres of influence with the Russians in Pamir."

"But in what way would it remind you of that? Ah, wait…I think I understand how you were able to deceive Moran. In his mystic visions the Dalai Lama had beheld Moran, gun in hand, aiming at your wax replica behind the window of our flat from that empty house over there, and he told you of it. Am I right?"

"No, Watson," Holmes didn't even smile. "This wax replica will embody for me an idea of which I learned in Tibet."

"Which idea was that?" I asked, not expecting anything good.

"About the impermanence of everything that exists. I think this is a very expressive embodiment…" and he again touched the bullet mark on the wax forehead.

I could only sigh heavily at this return to the point from which we started.

I dared not question Holmes regarding his visit to the Khalif of Khartoum.


	2. Chapter 2

**Warnings:** AU in that Holmes had visited India during his hiatus. Also, there is a discussion of the Aghori sect and death rituals (somewhat graphic) and there is also an unfavourable view of Buddhism.  
><strong>Translator's Notes:<strong>this is NOT my story. It was originally written in Russian for a fest "Our Birthday Present for Mr Brett" for Nov. 3, 2011 in the 221b comm on . I liked the story and asked the author for permission to translate into English and post on English-language fanfic comms and here , which the author kindly granted.

* * *

><p>My comrade, who was also an Army doctor but had served in India (it was he to whom I referred in the conversation with Holmes) met me in front of my house, which I was going to leave the next day to move back to Baker Street.<p>

"Watson! I'm so glad we didn't cross each other on the way!" he exclaimed happily, extending his hand as he walked towards me. "Listen, I must tell you that Thurston is expecting you at the club tonight to play a game of billiards with him and also so that he can tell you about something you might find of interest."

"And what is that something?"

"I don't know, but I suppose that it is about some papers in which he invested money and now he is trying to convince everyone else to do the same. Are you going to come? I will be going there myself."

"I'm afraid not. I'm busy tonight."

"Ah, that's really too bad. Oh well…"

"Wait a moment! Perhaps you could come in if you're not in a hurry? We could have tea or perhaps something stronger. A glass of whisky in this weather wouldn't go amiss."

"With pleasure!" We entered the house.

My comrade was a well-educated man who was interested in many things not directly relevant to medicine. When in India, he took notes describing the traditions and everyday life of local residents and he even tried to publish these notes when he returned to England. However, his idea was not met enthusiastically by the editors, because the market was quite saturated with literature of that kind already, and also because the thoughts he expressed in those notes regarding the politics of the British government towards the local population were rather seditious.

We were already savouring our second glass of brandy, reminiscing about events which had happened during our service away from our homeland. And even though these stories have been told more than once, we did not tire of them. At least for me, they were always, although painful, but memories of my youth and the time when life, despite the surrounding danger, seems so full thanks to the variety of sensations which each day makes you feel. I remembered how, after a strenuous day's work in the Army hospital amid the blood, pain, and groans, I would step outside to get some air, and looking with weary eyes at the angry blood-red sun hanging over the mountains, I would suddenly hear a song in a foreign language, which a woman in the yard nearby started to sing as she worked, stopping now and then to raise her voice at the children who were getting too rowdy.

My friend moved on to the story about the murder of a prominent Indian official, whose body he was called to examine. I knew that story quite well and, therefore, was listening with likely less than my full attention, being distracted by my own thoughts, until I caught a familiar name in the narrative.

"Have you been to Benares?" I interrupted my friend not very politely, and he stared at me.

"Of course, Watson. I had to escort the body of that unfortunate individual there, to the place of the funeral rites. I was even invited to the ceremony, but I declined as politely as I could. You know that…"

"And have you heard anything about the Aghori?" I interrupted him again, having no desire to listen for the second time to the details of funeral rites on the shores of the Ganges. My comrade winced.

"Good heavens, Watson! Why is it that from all topics about India, you must choose the most unpleasant? Would you like me to tell you about the cult of the goddess Kali? That is also rather unpleasant, but at least…"

"Tell me about the Aghori," I requested. "I really need to know."

He looked at me curiously but forbore to ask why I needed such information.

"You know, it's all rather complicated. Just like everything in India. That religion of theirs, those spiritual practices of the holy hermits, aiming at achieving some vague state, when, supposedly, the differences between life and death vanish, everything stands still and no one thing is different from another…Being fully at one with the world. Roughly speaking, everyone's goal is the same. The Aghori are saints in reverse. They also seek to be at one with the world, but they go about it in such horrible ways that I don't even want to speak of it."

"What is it they do that is so horrible? Do they kill people and devour the corpses?"

"Not quite. But their entire way of life is connected with death in some manner or other. They are smeared with ash from the funeral fires. They wear shrouds they'd taken off the dead bodies and jewelry made from human bones. And those are the most inoffensive among their actions. There is no need for them to kill anyone. Believe me, in India, and especially in Benares, corpses are plentiful. But regarding devouring…"

My friend did actually dislike speaking of it at first. But then the observant portrayer of ordinary life prevailed, and he, having gotten engrossed in the topic, imparted several sinister stories about those strange hermits, who fish corpses out of the river and conduct loathsome rituals over them, which supposedly help them acquire power over the dead person's spirit.

"The Aghori are revered as much as other saints. In some places, even more. Some representatives of the higher castes consider it an honour to serve them at one of their rituals."

"But can it possibly make any sense? I don't see how one could reach not even being at one with the world, but even a spiritual equilibrium."

My comrade shrugged his shoulders.

"As I had told you, it's rather complicated. If by spiritual equilibrium you mean a sense of inner satisfaction, when your financial affairs are in order, your practice is flourishing, and all your near and dear are alive and well, then one certainly cannot count on achieving such a state by following any of the Indian practices. I think that agori, by so insistently surrounding themselves with death, turn it into their life, thus making the differences between these two phenomena vanish. But that is only my opinion. Some people think that agori don't exist at all. That it's all just scary stories…"

But I knew that wasn't the case.

My friend couldn't tell me much about the meaning of certain ideas in the Eastern philosophy called Buddhism. This doctrine was not especially popular in India at present, although that country had been, according to him, the homeland of the Siddhartha Gautama, who was later given the name of Buddha because, after subjecting himself and his mind to various trials, he suddenly received an epiphany and conveyed to his associates the original thought that the entire world is merely an ever-changing illusion. However, this doctrine has spread far beyond the borders of India, and in many countries was taken very seriously. And I could not understand why. That doctrine with its boundless fatalism made a person give up at the slightest attempt to change anything at all in his fate, and as a doubtful consolation it offered immersing oneself in the same incomprehensible state of being at one with the universe that the Aghori sought to achieve.

All this seemed rather odd to me. I could not discern the reason because of which if some Indian prince grew disappointed in life, having met in the same day an old man, a sick man, and a funeral procession, everybody else should follow him and do the same thing. No doubt, perhaps that was too many experiences for one day, especially if one takes into consideration the effeminate character of that youth, but I could not find anything unusual in those experiences. I wondered what would have happened to him had he worked a month or two in a military hospital. And how could he not know about death if he himself came from the warrior caste and, most likely, practiced martial arts? Didn't he guess why he might need these arts? In all this I saw only the confirmation of something I had known about long ago—how unreasonably some parents act when they too diligently guard their child from unpleasant experiences and difficulties of life.

I must admit, however, that some of the stories and parables composed by the Buddhist philosophers, which my friend quoted to me, seemed interesting and even not devoid of the sense of humour. Especially those that were written outside India—in the Far East, in the country lying upon four islands and which has only relatively recently opened itself to interaction with the rest of the world. Although my friend's and my opinion somewhat differed on the subject of the usefulness of teachers' practice of beating their students on the head with the bamboo stick on the way to enlightenment.

Having seen my comrade off, I fell to thinking. The thought that Holmes was left alone in the flat on Baker Street, and that, perhaps, this very minute he was sitting in his armchair, staring at the accursed bust, thinking of the hermits who insistently surround themselves with death, and trying to make sense of an Eastern doctrine which enervates a man with its pessimism, troubled me a great deal. I can't convey how much I disliked this newfound tendency of his. I had to distract my friend from the gloomy experiences he picked up at Benares and from the strange ideas impressed upon him in Tibet. I was glancing around the room, and suddenly I thought that I had found a way.


	3. Chapter 3

**Warnings:** AU in that Holmes had visited India during his hiatus. Also, there is a discussion of the Aghori sect and death rituals (somewhat graphic) and there is also an unfavourable view of Buddhism.  
><strong>Translator's Notes:<strong>this is NOT my story. It was originally written in Russian for a fest "Our Birthday Present for Mr Brett" for Nov. 3, 2011 in the 221b comm on . I liked the story and asked the author for permission to translate into English and post on English-language fanfic comms and here , which the author kindly granted.

* * *

><p>The distraught expression on our landlady's face, when she came out to meet me, convinced me more than any words could have that my uneasy premonitions were beginning to come true.<p>

"What happened, Mrs Hudson?" I inquired after greeting her.

"Oh, Dr Watson!" and she started nervously wringing her hands. "This bust in the sitting room…"

"Why, what has happened to it?"

"That's just it, absolutely nothing has happened to it. It has been standing there all day, and I would be happy if something did happen to it so that it would disappear from this house."

"Come now, Mrs Hudson," I said reproachfully. "You yourself had said that it was a very handsome bust and were displeased when the bullet spoiled it."

"Yes, but Mr Holmes!"

"Yes?" I halted.

"He put it in the most prominent place in the sitting room and forbade me to carry it away. I can't enter the room because that head with a hole in its forehead makes such a dismal impression upon me. And it's the first thing I see when I open the door. The head looks at me as if it were alive."

"And did you tell Mr Holmes about it?"

"Of course I did."

"So what was his response?"

"He threatened to make an outline of the bust in bullets on the wall, should I remove the bust. And we have just finished renovating! I got up the courage to point out to him that you will also be displeased by this thing being in the sitting room. And do you know what he said to me in return?"

"What was it?"

"That you could not be displeased because you and this bust—why, the very idea!—embody the same concept, and that's why you ought to feel friendly sympathy towards it."

"What concept?" I asked glumly.

"He said you would know."

"Yes…about the impermanence of everything on earth…" I muttered, feeling the anxiety mount within me. I and this bust?..

"About the impermanence?" Mrs Hudson indignantly threw up her hands. "What impermanence could he possibly talk about, when I even put the tobacco in his Persian slipper when he returned! Although you know my attitude toward such habits…"

"He was referring to more…large-scale phenomena, Mrs Hudson," I said in a conciliating tone of voice. "Never doubt it, he valued your care very highly."

Somewhat mollified, Mrs Hudson shook her head.

"It's all because of his travels abroad. It's an unheard-of thing, truly, going to Tibet where nobody even has any idea how to properly brew a cup of tea!"

"Actually, in Tibet, the local residents have a fairly good idea how," I smiled slightly despite the mounting anxiety. "Strangely enough, they mastered that art much earlier than we did."

"All the same," Mrs Hudson answered, stubbornly. "Do you know what my aunt used to say, when people started conversing in her presence about such travelers and other vagabonds who presumptuously criss-cross the globe?"

"What then?"

" 'Let's not criss-cross the globe.' She detested such individuals, never left England herself, lived to be ninety and died in her own bed. And although I believe that she did go to the extremes a little in her last few years, there is a kernel of truth in her words.

Knowing that Mrs Hudson has many relatives, I cut the conversation short as quickly as I politely could, fearing that the reminiscences about the aunt would be followed by a flood of similar stories, and I was completely not in the mood to listen to them. Mentally I was already in the sitting room, where my friend, who experienced some morbid desire for contemplating the torn-apart forehead of his wax bust was intending, most likely, to become immersed in one of his most dangerous moods. An idea came to me that this new Holmes, who appeared to me so unexpectedly, did in fact remain the the same person he was before our parting—with the same peculiarities and habits. He was new only to me.

The sitting room was quiet. Holmes was still sitting in the chair which used to be considered mine, as if he never got up from it since our conversation in the early morning. He was absently swinging his foot, rifling through some notes from his files, and he smiled politely as I entered the room but did not look up at me.

"Well, Watson, I see you decided to spend this evening with me after all. Thurston will be disappointed," he said, just as in the old days.

"How do you know about Thurston?" I asked, surprised, sitting down in the second chair and avoiding looking at the bust, which indeed was arrogantly looking on, as if it were alive, from its high stand upon the table. "I don't see the slightest clue which would have allowed you to find out that he invited me to visit the club tonight."

"You are right. I simply overheard what the messenger told Mrs Hudson downstairs."

"She did not give me any such message."

"Is that so? Then what did you talk to her about for such a long time?"

"Didn't you overhear it?"

"Only in passing. Something about how they brew tea in Tibet. It's awfully disgusting, Watson. They add butter and salt to their tea. If one is not accustomed to it, the taste seems simply revolting, although I can tell you from experience that the resulting drink restores one's strength very well."

It seemed to me that the time has come to use the method of I came up with earlier today in my old flat to improve Holmes' mood.

"Listen, my dear fellow," I began, "don't you think that in your faraway travels you have lost the edge of your deductive abilities? You spend your time eavesdropping on messengers, you are interested not in complicated crimes which require a sharp mind but in Buddhist monks and sinister hermits who devour corpses. I'm afraid that Adair's case would exhaust the remnants of your strength."

Holmes looked at me sharply. Then he shifted his gaze on the object which I had brought with me and was now holding in my hands.

"So that's why you needed this worn volume…" he muttered.

"Well, what is it you want of me?" he asked in a deliberately disinterested tone of voice. "For me to demonstrate my abilities at the drop of a hat, just as if I were a trained dog?"

I was somewhat taken aback. I meant for my plan to look like a friendly joke, not a mockery. But it was too late to turn back now, and so I handed him the book.

Holmes took the volume, which had seen better days, its title half-covered by a coffee stain, ran his finger along the narrow oblong hole slightly off center of the first page and extending through the next several pages, opened the book in the middle, and frowned quizzically after having read a few phrases.

"Where did you get this?"

"Let's consider it a clue from the crime scene. What can you tell me about its owner?"

Holmes laid the book aside and crossed his arms over his chest.

"I am currently not inclined to idle pastimes which have no practical use."

"In your opinion, contemplating a bust with a bullet through its head is of great practical use?"

"Yes, very much so. Because it does not allow me to forget myself and to become a prisoner of empty illusions again."

"And in my opinion, you have already so much forgotten yourself in this pastime that it might end in something which I absolutely cannot allow to happen."

Holmes' face twitched, and he said,

"Don't speak like this, Watson."

"Like what?"

"As if you actually…All right, give it to me," and he extended his hand, although the book lay quite within his reach.

"About which of the two owners did you want to learn more?" he asked, chuckling, after some time, making me experience such a familiar sensation. This mixed feeling of surprise, excitement, and some annoyance at my own slowness-I was deprived of it for many years, but it immediately awakened as soon as Holmes started his game.

Holmes chuckled again, having correctly appraised my questioning silence, which stood in for my usual delighted exclamation this time. He applied himself to the book, this time carefully leafing through it and running his finger along the pages, stopping at some passages and reading attentively. Once, he brought the open book very close to his face and inhaled deeply. Then he pulled his magnifying glass from the pocket of his dressing-gown and carefully examined some of the illustrations.

Having closed the volume, he lowered it to his knees and said,

"Well then. Neatly cut pages—every one of them—and a few which have been repaired with paste so carefully that it's almost unnoticeable—all that is from the first owner. He wasn't rich, since he acquired fairly inexpensive books, printed on newsprint, and endeavoured to keep the book in good condition, so as not to have to buy a new one.

This first owner had read this book more than once and each time with great interest, which we can tell bu those small indentations on the pages—you know, people do this—bend the edge of the page toward themselves slightly, place its corner on the next page, and press down to straighten the paper. This man loved his book and wouldn't have left such marks on it deliberately. He did it mechanically, not even realising he was doing it, because he was engrossed by reading. He was so engrossed by it, in fact, that sometimes he did not even notice that ash was sifting down from his cigar.

He had favourite passages which he valued especially highly—note how easily the book falls open on some of the pages…Ah, what have we here? 'He was gliding on the ice, making spasmodic attempts at smiling, but every lineament of his face denoted suffering…' A rather expressive illustration. That's Phiz, of course—a stout middle-aged gentleman on skates. What's here? A courtship scene…Also rather comical, judging by the illustration. And this—simply absurd—some kind of 'Ode to a dying frog'. Hmm...yes. Well, at least here one can definitely observe the tendency of this man to choose the humourous scenes and reread them, obviously with enjoyment. But not only the humorous ones. Here the book also opens easily. But the story is a rather gloomy one, even judging by the title alone— 'Manuscript of a madman.' What kind of people like this sort of stories? People who don't mind a bit of excitement, who possess a lively imagination, which depicts the rest of the events for them, enhancing the effect of what they'd read.

Only two chapters in this book contain underlining and even exclamation points penciled in in the margins. This chapter is the first, and in it, judging by the title, author introduces new characters—young medical students. Good heavens, what dialogues! 'Nothing stimulates appetite better than dissecting corpses…' 'We chipped in to get a corpse…can't find anybody who'd take its head…' They even eat whilst they're doing that. All of this might seem amusing to one of your surgeon colleagues, Watson. And the other chapter is the description of the party of the same medical students with similar conversations about unusual occurrences during operations. We can conclude that this man has a connection to medicine and surgery.

And here's another illustration—the scene of some duel. Look—dueling pistols are drawn fairly accurately. But if you look more closely, it becomes obvious that somebody found the illustration not quite accurate, and in that he was quite right, and considered it necessary to add some details to the drawing himself. He did it very neatly, in pencil, so that it's almost unnoticeable. Nonetheless, who else could have done such a thing if not a man who knows weaponry and couldn't bear to see it drawn incorrectly?

So what is he like, the first owner? A not very wealthy man with a sense of humour and a lively imagination. He also has a connection to medicine, smokes cigars and knows his weaponry. But that is not yet all.

He is fond of literature and considers it to be a good remedy for ennui caused by life's tribulations. This book lacks a clear and dynamic plot. Rather, it is composed of everyday sketches, descriptions of home amusements, hunting, dinners, observations of different events in life. An excellent way for some people to distract themselves from gloomy thoughts and forget their troubles for a time. Look what I found here," and Holmes extended a small piece of paper towards me. "Do you see this? This kind of paper is used to write funeral announcements. Somebody in his circle had died, and he was writing them himself, although usually women fulfil that role…"

Holmes fell silent. Then he picked the book up again and looked at the light through the hole in the book's cover. He sharply snapped the book shut and tossed it onto the table. I sat as if mesmerised by such a detailed report about the fist owner and now it was as if I'd just come to.

"That is wonderful, Holmes," I said cautiously. "And what do you think about…" and halted, seeing my friend's expression. He snatched the book up again.

"Now about the second owner," he said through gritted teeth. "There's a stain from spilled coffee on the cover. And the coffee had been spilled more than once. Traces of burns, as if something hot had been touching the cover. Scratches. The first owner would have never treated this object in such a manner and would not have allowed the accidentally spilled coffee to leave a stain. That means the book has changed owners. This second person did not read this book. If you open it, you won't find any traces of coffee, the pages have been much better preserved than the cover. This book lay in a place where other objects which see daily use are kept—cups, pipes—and, judging by the traces of soot on the cover, this place was the mantelpiece. Not the best place for an object which is associated with pleasant memories. Why then did he put it there and why did he treat it so contemptuously?

The reason is that he has no fondness for this sort of literature. Any other book might have been in the place of this one. He simply did not notice it. The most interesting question is this—how did this book come to him? What made its first owner part with it for the sake of a man who was so indifferent to the fact of having it or not that he affixed his correspondence to it with a jackknife?

Do you not find, Watson, that this second owner is quite an unpleasant individual? Not inclined to being tidy, with peculiar habits and absolutely uncaring about other people's feelings. Not many people would agree to tolerate such a person," Holmes was looking straight into my eyes with such an expression as if he were saying something totally different from what I was actually hearing.

"It is not surprising that this person is alone. And he needn't complain that the only friend he'd had now chose the society of another person. And he needn't entertain empty illusions about how everything might have been different."

Handing me the book, which I took as if in a dream, Holmes sharply leant back in his armchair and turned away.

I sat as if thunderstruck. I had been certain that he would not remember.


	4. Chapter 4

**Warnings:** AU in that Holmes had visited India during his hiatus. Also, there is a discussion of the Aghori sect and death rituals (somewhat graphic) and there is also an unfavourable view of Buddhism.  
><strong>Translator's Notes:<strong>this is NOT my story. It was originally written in Russian for a fest "Our Birthday Present for Mr Brett" for Nov. 3, 2011 in the 221b comm on . I liked the story and asked the author for permission to translate into English and post on English-language fanfic comms and here, which the author kindly granted.

* * *

><p>The book was "The Posthumous Notes of the Pickwick Club"—a book, which, despite the sinister word in its title, had nothing at all to do with death and, on the contrary, depicted life with such humour and warmth that I was able to read it even during the most difficult times of my life. I took it with me to Devonshire, where I went first on Holmes' errand of uncovering the secret of the sinister legend of the Baskervilles. That is, I had thought that I was the first to go there. The book was a good remedy for the gloom which had threatened to possess me among the unpopulated marshes and moors, until it was revealed the the moors were not so unpopulated after all and events started raining upon the residents of Baskerville Hall with such speed that there was no time left to be gloomy. Somehow I imagined Holmes next to me, thoughtfully smoking his pipe and listening to me reading select passages aloud. It seemed to me that he would have been interested in the dialogues of Samuel Weller with his father and those stories which he told to the simple-minded Mr Pickwick. Or the poem about a frog, composed by Mrs Leo Hunter, which made me laugh till I cried the first time I'd read it.<p>

Perhaps the melancholy and the oppressive feeling of trouble which dogged me in this dismal place made me remember all the good things that have happened in my life all the more, and perhaps in a somewhat exaggerated manner. Because when I, finally, discovered Holmes and nearly shot him by mistake in the stone cave amid the Grimpen Mire, I was all the more chilled by the offhand nonchalance with which he disposed of myself, having made me believe that he was in London and to send him the detailed reports, over which I laboured so conscientiously. Although he assured me that all that was planned in the interest of solving the case, and that my reports provided him with invaluable assistance.

After we finished with the ancient curse which proved to be, just like all curses, the consequence of an overactive imagination, we left for London, and on the train I offered the book to Holmes, who was complaining of boredom. The book did not engage him, although he did flick through a few pages with some interest—those pages contained the description of Mr Pickwick and his friends being questioned in court about Mrs Bardle's case. But the book never did return to me. It remained at Holmes', and he, having tossed it on the mantelpiece in our sitting room, no longer noticed it, although he constantly used it as a stand for cups of tea or coffee and for his pipe. I learned about it only when he, being in a somewhat excited state, transfixed it with a jackknife so as to affix a few important letters to it, after which I bought myself a new copy.

After I decided to get married and to move to a new flat, I took my old book with me after all. It happened by chance. I was looking over the sitting room for the last time, checking if I had left anything important behind, when I noticed a familiar-looking book spine under the pile of papers on the mantelpiece.

After I lost Holmes, I moved it out of my sight, because I couldn't bear looking at an object which made me see my friend as he was—with all his peculiar habits and everyday untidiness. However, after my wife's death, I found this book one evening, when in a downcast mood I decided to sort some papers. I sat for some time looking at the cover, and then opened the book at random. The battered volume easily fell open on that very same "Ode to the dying frog."

I don't recall what thoughts came to my mind that evening. They were merely fragments of reflections, images which flooded me from the past, and I felt as if I were a traveler in the mountains, who lost all his companions on the way and still hasn't reached the peak towards which he was climbing so persistently, not knowing what for, and now, sitting on one of the mountainsides, silently contemplating the space which has opened up in front of him, full of chilly fogs and ghostly lights. And the wind, chilling body and soul, whispered, "Everything could have gone differently…" I used to open this book every evening for many months.

"Well, Watson?" Holmes said after a tense silence, straightening up in the armchair, as if he'd convinced himself that the burden which was bowing down his shoulders was nothing but an empty illusion. "Isn't that a brilliant example of deduction? Note that I haven't lost my abilities at all, as you feared. No, my dear fellow. I have perfected them and now I can not only provide a logical deduction but also explain why I was asked to do so."

"What are you talking about?" I muttered, feeling that everything went entirely not the way I expected, and now our conversation was heading in a totally unknown direction.

"But of course. I understood perfectly well what you wished to tell me by this attempt of yours to examine my talents."

Holmes got up and walked over to the window. Looking out on the busy street, he said in a somewhat calmer manner:

"I must beg your forgiveness, Watson. I was too self-assured when I so suddenly burst into your life, completely certain that you would accept me without any conditions and explanations, as if we, having shaken hands, parted in some gentlemen's club. And the fact that all these years neither one of us sent any word to the other was simply due to being busy or to being slightly forgetful. I merely want you to know that I really did attempt to write you on several occasions. But Mycroft considered it undesirable, and after his agents intercepted the first two letters, he informed me of this fact. I cannot prove it to you because I don't have these letters in my possession. I merely want you…to know…"

I jumped up just in time to prevent Holmes's stumbling and falling right underneath the table, from which the bullet-marked head looked on indifferently. Having sat him down in my armchair, in which, as far as I could understand, he felt better, I felt his forehead, and, finding it icy cold, ran my hand over his paled cheek as well. I started feverishly looking around in search of something restorative. I didn't have my brandy flask and I started to dash toward the door but stopped when I felt thin cold fingers encircle my wrist.

"Don't," Holmes mumbled. "Don't call her."

"All right," I answered hurriedly. "How are you feeling?"

"Like a man who cannot bear anybody else's society but yours, my dear Watson."

"In that case you needn't worry. I think Mrs Hudson would not be willing to come in even if I did call her," I cautiously lowered myself onto the arm of the chair Holmes was sitting in, since he didn't intend to release my wrist. "You can't imagine how much this waxen head of yours on the table frightens her."

"I can imagine. And I don't intend to get upset about it," he was saying all this without opening his eyes, and it is so difficult for me to convey the aching feeling with which I looked at his thin wind-chapped face, which had already lost the suntan from his faraway travels. I saw another mark they left upon it—not as noticeable, but far sadder.

"If you release my wrist, I'll open the window," I suggested, thinking that relatively fresh air would do my friend good.

"Sit down, Watson," and Holmes clutched my wrist tighter. "I don't know, do I, how much longer you'll stay here until you once again find someone else's society preferable to mine. Consider it a momentary weakness, but I wish you to stay in this position a little while longer."

He still hadn't opened his eyes, and we sat side by side in silence, both lost in our own thoughts. This entire idea with the book seemed to me foolish and senseless now. I had not the slightest suspicion that the conclusions Holmes would draw from my attempt to cheer him up would turn out to be so unexpected. But I wasn't going to beg his pardon. Many things became clear to me after the statement with which he concluded the description of the second owner.

"Holmes, do you know this Buddhist aphorism?" I said, finally. "I don't recall who said it, but it begins like this: 'If you meet Buddha, kill Buddha. If you meet a patriarch, kill the patriarch…' And so on—it continues to a long list of those whom one should kill, including one's own father and mother, probably so that they would not interfere with one's comprehending the idea of the impermanence of everything that exists."

"And so as to become Buddha oneself," Homes answered, opening his eyes. "Is it like that, Watson? Have you also grown interested in Eastern philosophy?"

"Not as much as you have, Holmes," said I. "But enough to understand why you chose me, along with your waxen replica, to be the embodiment of this idea you have grown to like so much."

Having felt Holmes releasing his hold on my wrist, I placed my fingers on top of his and made his remain in their place.

"My wife is dead; we shan't speak of her. The choice which I made at that time was my decision, and there is no sense in debating now whether that decision was correct. Her loss was not easy for me. But I want to tell you, even if it makes me seem heartless, that her real loss was easier for me to endure than the one which, as I found out yesterday, was only imaginary. And it was not because I didn't love my wife. Rather, it was because the store of feelings which is allotted to every person to spend upon grief and sorrow, was already exhausted in me by that time. Holmes, don't press my wrist so hard, it really is painful."

"I beg your pardon," Holmes uttered with difficulty. "Forgive me…"

"Of course. There, that's better. Everything, indeed, could have gone very differently, you are not the only person in the world ever to have had that thought. But, unlike you, I can draw conclusions from the past years' experiences. And I am not frightened to the point of despair by the mutability of the outside world. Because I know—there are things which, despite everything, remain immutable, although perhaps it takes some time to distinguish them from illusions and the price one pays for it seems immeasurably high. But all illusions sooner or later disappear, in full accord with your idea. What was the use of all your travels, meetings, and conversations, if you didn't understand that? Only what is true remains. Even though Eastern philosophy considers this truth also to be an illusion."

Holmes made no answer. He closed his eyes again, and if it weren't for his fingers firmly pressing my wrist, I would have thought the worst—so expressionless was his pale face.

"All of that is here, inside you," Holmes started and looked at me in amazement when I tapped my finger upon his forehead. "All these thoughts are engendered by your fears, worries, and uncertainty. And in your despair you latched onto this idea, which, so it seems to you, can reconcile you to your disappointment and will help you to avoid further disappointment in the future. I am not asking you to get rid of these thoughts. I am asking you something else. Make an attempt, for variety's sake, to believe not what is there, but what is here," and I touched his chest. "The only question is whether you can understand why I am telling you all this. But if you have perfected your deductive abilities so much, you should be able to do so."

Holmes and I looked each other in the eye intently and he seemed to be on the verge of answering me. But in that moment, hurried footsteps sounded at the door and the breathless voice of Mrs Hudson said, behind the door,

"Dr Watson! I am completely at fault in this, but I do hope you'll forgive me…"

"Apologies again. Truly, Watson, today I am not the only one feeling guilty towards you," muttered Holmes.

He gently released his hold on my wrist, got up and went to the door.

"Come in, Mrs Hudson," he said in a friendly manner, opening the door.

Our landlady cautiously looked in and immediately turned away, having waved her hand in the direction of the wax head on the table.

"No, no. I'll speak from here. Dr Watson, a messenger came today from Mr Thurston…"

"Don't worry, dear Mrs Hudson. I know what Mr Thurston's message was, and I'd even conveyed my answer to him already," I answered cheerfully. "Do come in."

"I can't," she whispered.

"If you are still frightened by this inoffensive handicraft, you needn't fear it any longer," said Holmes, walking over to the bust and putting his hand on its head. "I no longer need it. I decided that it indeed doesn't make a very suitable decoration for our sitting room."

"Can I carry it away?" Mrs Hudson inquired happily and, having received a nod in answer, quickly walked into the room and somewhat warily picked up the bust.

"That's just wonderful, I must tell you, Mr Holmes. That's a burden off my chest. I knew that Dr Watson will convince you to get rid of this…thing."

"You are absolutely right, Mrs Hudson," Holmes replied seriously, sitting down in his armchair by the fireplace this time. "He convinced me of it fully and entirely.

THE END

Author's notes:

1. Materials for Holmes' esoteric contemplations are taken from the novel of Richard Appineazi "Yukio Misima's Report to the Emperor".

2. Mrs Hudson's aunt is the elderly lady from the first chapter of Charles Dickens' book "The Life of David Copperfield".


End file.
